


keep me close, love me most

by cynical_optimist



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, M/M, Unrelenting Sappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist
Summary: “Silas,” Panto says, quiet and tender, and Silas lets himself look him in the eye again. “You’re the bravest man I know.”Silas laughs, and it aches deep in his chest like he’s tearing something out of it. “I’ve never been brave,” he repeats. “That’s what I just told you.”-A soft night in the years before Panto leaves to fulfill the prophecy; insecurities run deep, but they know how to comfort each other.





	keep me close, love me most

**Author's Note:**

> This was titled The Soft(tm) Fic for a while; actual title from [Someone to Stay](https://genius.com/Vancouver-sleep-clinic-someone-to-stay-lyrics) by Vancouver Sleep Clinic. Many thanks to [Lauren](http://call-this-a-mask.tumblr.com) and [Kathi](http://hotchocolatenthusiast.tumblr.com) for reading over this for me; you two are the best <3
> 
> Set a hand-wavey number of years before the show, because someone asked Lee Majdoub who was the big spoon and he said it was Silas (but that it depends on who needs comfort), and because Silas' comment about bravery really got to me.

All Silas has ever wanted is to be brave.

Well, no, that’s not quite accurate. He wants many things-- he wants to be a figure that Farson can look up to, wants his mother’s love and peace and to be able to be open about how much he adores Panto Trost. He wants to be able to spend days and weeks out in the forests, making a living for himself among the animals and the little sparks of magic that flutter in the depths. He wants to be a half-decent swordsman.

It’s just that bravery lies at the core of every one.

If only he was brave enough to speak up when his mother engages with the Trosts, to keep speaking when she snaps at him to be silent.

If only his bravery was the kind Farson could look at and wish to possess. If only he could walk up to his mother and say, “I am in love with Panto Trost, and we intend to be married, so you  can do away with your feud and your squabbles with his family.” If only, if only.

He wouldn’t really say that, of course. His mother didn’t lecture him for hours in diplomacy every day for five years of his life for him to be spouting that sort of nonsense. Silas knows how to pillow it between platitudes, to hint toward his goal until it happens of its own accord. He just doesn’t like doing it; he never has.

“What are you talking about?” Panto mutters after he voices this, one night when they’re lying together, Panto having been covertly ushered around Dengdamor guards by Wygar. He’ll have to leave in the morning, but his father won’t realise he’s gone until at least midday.

“You’re the brave one,” Silas replies, tucking his chin over his lover’s shoulder and letting his hand still on his chest. “If you wished, you could walk up to your father and speak everything on your mind, and you’d be able to take down every person that dared stand in your way.”

That’s not quite true, he knows, and he hates himself as he’s saying it.

Panto hums, considering, then turns in his arms until they face each other. “Is that what you think?” he asks, and Silas drops his gaze.

“No,” he murmurs.  “I just…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and after a heavy moment Panto reaches out, cupping his chin.

“Silas,” he says, quiet and tender, and Silas lets himself look him in the eye again. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

Silas laughs, and it aches deep in his chest like he’s tearing something out of it. “I’ve never been brave,” he repeats. “That’s what I just told you.”

Panto shakes his head. “I’ve never known anyone braver than you. The first time we met, you thought a monster was attacking me and tried to save me.”

“Ugh,” Silas says, burying his face in a pillow. “That’s not something I wish ever to discuss again.”

“It might only have been a tree branch, but it’s the meaning behind it that counts,” Panto continues.

Silas’ chest feels tight and heavy, an echo of the tightness he feels every time he finds himself in his mother’s court. “That was one time, though,” he says, “and years ago, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything if you had been in danger.”

“So?” Panto asks. “Bravery isn’t about what you can do.”

“Isn’t it? I can’t fight, and I can’t be a good older brother to Farson, and…” he trails off, sighing. “Every time my mother or any of her retinue so much as looks at me, my heart starts beating so fast I feel it might skip past my ribcage and onto the floor.”

Silas closes his eyes as Panto’s fingers brush up from his jaw to the shell of his ear, gentle.

“There’s no shame in fear,” Panto whispers. “And you know as well as I that bravery goes beyond that. Am I not terrified every time I face a new opponent? Whenever it seems a crisis is facing the farmlands?” His face softens further, if that’s even possible, and he adds, “Each time I let go of you?” He smiles for a moment, bittersweet, then lets it fall from his face. “Bravery isn’t in the action— it’s in living through it.”

The words are familiar, and for a reason — Silas had first spoken those words himself, not long after they fell in love.

“I told you that,” Silas says, wry, thoughts going back years. “I had no idea you still remembered.”

“Of course I did, my love,” Panto says. “You changed my life with those words.”

Silas’ heart skips, and he sighs, leaning into his lover’s hand on the side of his face. “You never told me.”

“You change my life every day,” Panto murmurs. “I fear telling you each time would take up every moment we have together.”

“You flatter me,” Silas says, but his chest feels lighter, freer.

“Endlessly, love.”

A smile tugs at Silas’ lips, and he turns his face to press a kiss to Panto’s palm.

“My point,” Panto says, “is that you fear much, but you live through it with strength and grace.” He presses a kiss to Silas’ forehead. “That is one of the things I love most about you.”

“I love you too,” Silas says, and Panto’s lips move to the tip of his nose, and then, finally, to his lips.

For a few moments, they linger there, and Silas closes his eyes and allows himself to simply exist in Panto’s presence. For a few minutes, everything outside them fades away.

Then, Panto pulls back, though only so far as to rest his head against Silas’. “I’ll need to depart, soon,” he says. Silas knows; this routine is familiar and has been for a very long while.

It aches the same each time.

“Stay a little longer?” Silas asks, and this part is familiar, too.

Panto hesitates, and that’s familiar too. Then, he nods, and that is less familiar, rarer.

Silas smiles. “Just a few minutes,” he says, slipping into the altered script.

“Just a few,” Panto agrees. “We’ll watch the sunrise through your window.”

“That sounds perfect,” Silas says, and reaches up to brush Panto’s hair off his forehead. As he draws it back to his side, his lover catches it.

“Remember, my love,” Panto says. “I may be able to protect you on the battlefield, around people with swords and knives and clubs, but you,” here, he moved Silas’s hand and presses it to his own chest, “protect me here. In my heart. Every word I’ve said tonight is simply an echo of what you’ve said to me before.”

“You sell yourself short,” Silas protests.

“As do you.” Panto’s eyes are wide and serious. “You have my heart, Silas, and there is no one I trust more to keep it safe.”

“You are my heart,” Silas replies, and Panto reddens. “Thank you, my love.”

“I have only done what you have done for me a million times over,” Panto says, then, “Look, the sun’s rising.”

Silas turns, watches as the stars fade and the first rays of the sun begin to cast the smiling moon into golden light.

Soon, it will be time for Panto to leave, and Silas will rise and face his mother and brother and their servants and courtiers. Soon, he will feel the creeping, roiling fear that has characterised most of his life for almost as long as he remembers. Soon, he will need to remember what it feels like to feel at peace, to feel brave— to feel as he feels in this moment, in the arms off his lover, watching the sunrise.

Maybe, if he holds onto this moment, he can be brave, or at least pretend — and really, aren’t they the same thing, in the end? Silas reaches up to hold his lover’s hands, leans down to kiss one gently.

In this moment, at least, he feels brave, and maybe that will work for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @boxesfullofthoughts if you want to cry about these soft boys with me


End file.
